Paul Bourget - A LOVE CRIME

PAUL BOURGET

A LOVE CRIME

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DEDICATION. DEDICATION. A LOVE CRIME PAUL BOURGET _Author of a "CRUEL ENIGMA._" LONDON _W. W. GIBBINGS, 18 BURY STREET W.C._ 1892. TO GASTON CRÉHANGE. Many days have elapsed, my dear friend, since our childhood, but they have passed away without effecting any alteration in the affectionate feelings we then entertained. In memory of an intimacy of heart and mind which has never known a cloud, it is very pleasant to me to write your name at the beginning of that one of my books which you preferred to all the rest. It is further the book in which I have stated with most sincerity what I think concerning some of the essential problems of the modern life of our day. May this complete sincerity, by which you, the truest and most loyal being I know, have doubtless been attracted, plead in favour of the work with readers who would otherwise be startled by a certain boldness of depicture and cruelty of analysis! For the rest, whatever may be the verdict of public opinion respecting "A Love Crime," as I have called this minute diagnostic of a certain distemper of the soul, it will always be possessed of one great merit in my eyes, for it will have pleased you, and have enabled me once more to subscribe myself, my dear Gaston, your ever faithful friend,

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

Impressum neobooks

A LOVE CRIME

PAUL BOURGET

_Author of a "CRUEL ENIGMA._"

LONDON

_W. W. GIBBINGS, 18 BURY STREET W.C._

1892.

TO GASTON CRÉHANGE.

Many days have elapsed, my dear friend, since our childhood, but they

have passed away without effecting any alteration in the affectionate

feelings we then entertained. In memory of an intimacy of heart and mind

which has never known a cloud, it is very pleasant to me to write your

name at the beginning of that one of my books which you preferred to all

the rest. It is further the book in which I have stated with most

sincerity what I think concerning some of the essential problems of the

modern life of our day. May this complete sincerity, by which you, the

truest and most loyal being I know, have doubtless been attracted, plead

in favour of the work with readers who would otherwise be startled by a

certain boldness of depicture and cruelty of analysis!

For the rest, whatever may be the verdict of public opinion respecting

"A Love Crime," as I have called this minute diagnostic of a certain

distemper of the soul, it will always be possessed of one great merit in

my eyes, for it will have pleased you, and have enabled me once more to

subscribe myself, my dear Gaston, your ever faithful friend,

The little drawing-room was illuminated by the soft light of three

lamps--tall lamps standing on Japanese vases and bearing globes upon

which rested flexible shades of a pale blue tint. The door was hidden by

a piece of tapestry; two walls were hung with another piece, which was

covered with large figures. Both windows were draped with

curtains--drawn just now--of deep red colour and heavy of fold.

The apartment thus closed in had a homelike air, which was heightened by

the profusion of small articles scattered over the furniture:

photographs set in frames, lacquered boxes, old-fashioned cases, a few

Saxon statuettes, books stitched in covers of antique stuff, such as

were coming into fashion in the year 1883. The wreathing foliage of an

evergreen plant showed in one corner. Close beside it, an open piano

displayed its white keys. An English screen with coloured glass and a

shelf on which tea-cups, books, or work might be laid, stood in folds on

one side of the fire-place. The fire burned with a peaceful crackling

noise which formed an accompaniment to the sound proceeding from the

tea-pot as the latter received the caresses from the flame of its lamp

on the low table designed for such service.

The furniture of the somewhat crowded drawing-room presented that

composite appearance which is characteristic of our time, together with

the peculiarity that everything in it seemed to be almost too new. At a

first glance, certain slight indications would have seemed to show that

its Parisian aspect had been voluntarily aimed at. Objects were

contrasted here and there; there were, for instance, little

old-fashioned silver spoons; on the walls were two excellent copies of

small religious pictures, to which memories of childhood were certainly

linked, and which could have come only from an old country house. The

photographs, also, witnessed, by the dress and demeanour of the

relatives or friends represented, to altogether provincial

relationships. The feeling of contrast would have become still more

perceptible to one visiting the other rooms and finding everywhere

evident tokens that the persons dwelling in them had lived but a very

short time at Paris.

This small-sized drawing-room belonged to a small-sized house situated

at No. 3½, Rue de La Rochefoucauld. The lower part of this street,

which descends in a very steep slope to the Rue Saint-Lazare, comprises

several private houses of very varied build, and a few retired dwellings

surrounded by gardens. The house containing the little drawing-room was

built for an actress by a celebrated financier under the Empire, at a

period when the Rue de la Tour des Dames harboured many princes and

princesses of the footlights. Too small to suit a wealthy family, too

inconvenient, owing to certain deficiencies in accommodation, for

tenants accustomed to the completeness of English comfort, it must have

proved quite seductive to persons accustomed to a semi-country life by

its attraction as a "home," as well as by the quiet pervading the end of

the street, which is rarely affronted by vehicles on account of the

difficulty of the ascent.

During this November evening, although the windows of the little

drawing-room looked upon the courtyard, and the latter opened upon the

street, only a dim and distant murmuring penetrated from without, broken

by occasional gusts of the north wind. Judging by the whistling of this

north wind the night must have been a cold one. So, at least, opined a

fairly young man, one of the three persons assembled in the

drawing-room, as he rose from his chair, set down his empty cup on the

tea-tray with a sigh, and looked at the time-piece.

"Ten o'clock. Must I really go to see the Malhoures this evening? What a

disaster it is to have a sensible wife who thinks about your future!

Never get married, Armand. Listen to that wind! I was so comfortable

here with you. Look here, Helen," he went on, leaning on the back of the

easy-chair in which his wife was seated, "what will happen if I do not

put in an appearance this evening?"

"We shall be discourteous to some very kind people, who have always

behaved perfectly towards us since we came to Paris a year ago," replied

the young woman; she stretched out to the fire her slender feet, in the